


Men From U.N.C.L.E.

by Patchwork drabbles (PurplePatchwork)



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Bad Flirting, Humor, Implied Relationships, M/M, Rough Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 02:55:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5273840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurplePatchwork/pseuds/Patchwork%20drabbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two drabbles about spies who need to learn how to flirt with each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not In Love

Illya Kuryakin was not in love. He knew this to be true, was absolutely certain of that fact. Then why did it bother him so much that Solo brought women to his room almost every night? Sometimes it was part of the mission, the American using his techniques of seduction as a means of distraction or to pry loose some very precious information. Other times… other times it seemed as if Napoleon solely let them in to take his mind off things, not even for the joy of sex but to full up the empty spaces in between missions.

It bothered Illya to no end, much more than he was prone to admit. Yet he was not in love, most certainly not. Falling in love with your partner like some silly love-sick preteen was not the Russian way. He had better things to do.

That is what he kept telling himself as he stood in the bathroom, bent over the sink with his hands firmly gripping the sides of it. He felt his fingers tap against the cool stone as he tried to regulate his breathing. Feeling his nostrils flare, he closed his eyes and muttered curses in his native language.

They were about to embark on another mission, where Napoleon was going to use himself as a distraction while Illya snuck in to do some research. But for some reason, today more than others, he simply couldn’t agree with their usual way of working. The mere thought of Solo using his charms on some unsuspecting woman… it made him see red, quite frankly.

“Hey Peril, what’s taking you so long?”

Illya’s eyes snapped open when he heard someone enter the public bathroom. His gaze shot up, until it locked with Napoleon’s in the mirror. The American was already dressed-up neatly, hair slicked back and smirk ever-so attractive as it tilted slightly to the side.

“I will just need another moment,” Illya breathed, voice even more accented due to his inner turmoil. Napoleon frowned in that better-than-thou way of his, although the Russian swore he could see a hint of worry hidden beneath the façade.

Instead of doing the sensible and leaving his partner alone, the confident American took a few steps forward. His eyes flashed a lovely green, sending a shiver down the other’s spine.

“Is something bothering you again? What- is it because Gaby had to leave for a solo-mission? Do you miss her?”

Miss her… He had no idea.

“It is not important. Just leave, I will be out in a minute.” He promptly began washing his hands, hoping that would discourage the other. No such luck- all of a sudden he was spun around and trapped against the sink.

“What are you-“

“There _is_ something wrong. Don’t think you can hide it from me, Peril.” He thoroughly searched Illya’s face for an emotion, any at all, but somehow failed to miss the upcoming blush. Illya hated himself for reacting this way, but still held his head high under that scrutinizing look. “ _Tell me_. We’re partners, right?”

The Russian lowered his eyelids. Napoleon standing so close to him, the warmth radiating off his body… it did something to him, turned on a switch he hadn’t flipped in quite a while.

“So, Cowboy. You want to know what is wrong?” he purred, voice dropping to seductively low tones.

Solo’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, before his body was roughly pushed back until it hit a wall. He had no time to react as his mouth was covered by hungry lips.

He struggled at first, but the tall man pressed back with such enthusiasm it soon drained any want to resist. …Illya was a surprisingly good kisser.

The American felt his muscles slacken, body trapped between the wall and the much bigger body of his partner. The hand that touched his face was cool, but sent a scalding electricity through his skin nonetheless. And those lips, the way he moved them, oh, no woman had ever made him feel this way. Forcedly prying open his own, capturing his tongue and sucking it in before roughly kneading it. For the first time he was the one being dominated, and he had to admit he loved every second of it.

When Illya finally pulled a way, his cheeks were flushed a lovely pink, eyes shining feverishly. Solo’s own gaze was unfocused, his lips parted as he panted and slowly slid down the wall. The Russian didn’t say anything to explain himself, but that wasn’t necessary.

“O-okay then,” Napoleon said once he could speak again. “We’ll use a different method to get in.”

And when the two left the bathroom, Illya Kuryakin for once had a satisfied smile adorning his features.

* * *

Gaby sighed when she finally arrived at the hotel her bosses had told her the others were currently staying in. Sometimes it was nice being away from them for a while, but she had to admit she’d missed her boys.

After grabbing the spare key from the lobby she made her way up, ready to meet with her favourite Russian and American sweethearts.

 However, when she opened the door to their shared hotel room, she stumbled upon a sight unlike any other.

Illya and Napoleon where currently lying on the couch, one on top of the other, both in different stadia of undress. Either they had both decided to become cannibals, or the mouth-on-mouth combat was of a very different kind.

Both men stared at her once they became aware of her presence, Gaby unblinkingly staring right back.

Solo was the first to speak up, his partner far too frozen in shock to react.

“Gaby, there is a perfectly good reason for this. Allow me to explain-”

To which Gaby chuckled, closing the door behind her. “Don’t worry, I don’t judge.” After which she calmly made her way to her own bedroom.

Illya was still frozen when the door fell shut behind her. Napoleon wriggled a bit beneath him.

“Well then, where were we?”

Illya couldn’t find the humour in the situation.


	2. How To Fail At Flirting 101

Illya Kuryakin despised the person who had ever decided that one needed to flirt to achieve a date. Or just the whole concept of dating in general. Couldn’t your love interest just… know? Form some sort of telepathic bond that perfectly conveyed your feelings and then you could both ride off into the sunset (but this time Illya would be the one driving that pathetically small motor)?

The Russian leered at his prey currently standing by the bar. Napoleon had dressed up extra nicely for tonight, as a means of celebrating another mission successfully completed. Illya didn’t much care for the crisp suit or coiffured coup, but the alcohol-induced rosiness of his cheeks and happily shimmering eyes… Now that he found a little too appealing.

He swallowed and paced up and down where he was hiding in the corner of the room. Napoleon hadn’t seen him yet, he could still retreat to his room and play a nice relaxing round of chess. No harm done, no bad memories made. But then of course, that idiot cowboy just had to look up right when he was about to make his escape. Grin widening to annoyingly gorgeous extends, Solo raised a hand and gave him a little wave. Illya swallowed again. No turning back now. He forced his feet to move and began walking towards the other. He tried desperately to remember everything he had written down on his little memory cards.

“Evening Peril. Care for a drink?” Solo asked in that ridiculously American accent of his. Ugh, so annoying.

“Sure,” Illya replied with what he hoped was a pleasant smile, but probably more resembled a death-stare. He was the kind of man who could only smile when it came unexpected, surprising even himself. Now he had no such luck, but the other merely chuckled, already acquainted with his often considered rude social skills. Please, why did people call him rude? He always made sure to ask nicely before starting a fight, and he was just a little to-the-point and straight-forward, nothing more.

While Napoleon ordered him a drink, he readied himself for what was to come. Letting his eyes trail up and down his companion’s relaxed figure, resting just a moment too long on the curves of his ass, he swallowed a final time and spoke up.

“Say Cowboy…”

“Yes Peril?” Solo asked nonchalantly, stirring the ice cubes in his whiskey before looking over and raising an eyebrow in that frustrating – sexy – way of his. Illya took in a deep breath and began what was probably the most torturous night he’d ever experienced.

“Did you steal those eyes? Because it looks like you ripped them out of an angel’s eye sockets.”

The stirring slowed down, then came to a complete stop. The other eyebrow went up too.

“…Excuse me?”

Illya’s hand trembled. He clenched it into a fist.

“That dress looks nice, but it would look better on the floor of the room.”

“Peril, I’m not even wearing a dress.”

“The voices in my head told me to come talk to you!”

“I’m getting a just a liiiiiiiiittle bit uncomfortable over here…”

“The more you drink the… the better you can see me?” Shit, was he getting his cards mixed up? Illya put up his index finger as an indication that he needed a moment, turned around, and began frantically skimming through his cards. Yes, there it was! Of course Napoleon was looking at him like he’d grown a second head, he was getting the pick-up lines all wrong! With renewed vigour he turned around… Only to find Solo halfway through the room, apparently fleeing the premises.

“Hey! Suka, I am not done with you!”

Napoleon let out a scared little noise when Illya began running and picked up the pace, only to find his face meeting the floor not a minute later. Everyone around them seemed either shocked or unperturbed by the giant tackling him to the ground. And to make things worse, Illya continued with what Napoleon thought to be a mental breakdown.

“Are you okay? Because it is long falling from the sky.”

“Please stop…”

“You have the best teeth please let us meet!”

“Dear Lord what did I do to deserve this…”

“If I were romantic I would shoot you!!”

“What are you _talking_ about?”

“Your eyes set my intestines on fire!!!”

“Gross…”

Exasperated and utterly embarrassed, Illya tried one final time. After that he’d give up, run to Gaby, and sulk a round or four, five. “Is it hot in here or… Or is it just you?”

Finally, Solo stopped his complaining. He slowly looked over his shoulder, blinking.

“Wait a minute, are you… are you flirting with me?”

Illya could feel his face heat up faster than the sun. In a flash he was up and about, freeing Napoleon from his confines. “Nyet, that is ridiculous!” he spouted, entire body trembling with shame. Especially now that the other was giving him _that look_ , that all-knowing better-than-thou smugness and argh! “I have to go.” He whirled around and took big strides to escape the bar. He knew this was a bad idea from the start, a very bad bad BAD IDEA.

“Oh no not so fast!” Illya sped up when he heard footsteps following behind, racing up the stairs, but before he could reach his room he froze. He wasn’t exactly used to a body pushing up to him from behind. Napoleon chuckled and brought his lips to Illya’s ear.

“I miss my teddy bear. Can I sleep with you?”

Illya frowned. “What are you… chto?” He was utterly confused.

Napoleon’s grin was audible in his voice as he continued. “You know what would look good on you? Me.”

“Stop.”

“They say sex is a killer. Want to die happy?”

He had to look like a boiled lobster by now, especially with those annoyingly gentle hands feathering over his stomach. “This is not funny Cowboy.”

“Oh but it is Peril,” Napoleon cooed. “But I have one last question.”

“What?” Illya asked, feeling like he was ready to embrace death.

“Excuse me sir, but can I flirt with you?”

Solo laughed, even when Illya hit him up the head, still portraying a very ripe tomato. “Not funny.”

“Yes it is! Not my fault you fail miserably when it comes to this, doll face.”

“Don’t call me that,” Illya growled, twitching when Napoleon suddenly got really, really close.

“But uh, I think I will take you up on your invitation, if it still stands.”

The Russian jerked back, but only slightly. He really couldn’t figure out if the other was joking or not, but damn, he was licking his lips in very alluring ways, and those half-lidded eyes made his gut do a little flip-flop.

“Fine,” he said in a low voice, and grabbed Solo by the hand to roughly pull him into the room before he could change his mind. Maybe his flirting did suck, but hey, at least it got him what he wanted in the end.


End file.
